Mirour
by SamuelSpaz
Summary: What if Jones had made it into the alternate reality? What if Peter had been just a moment too late in plugging the hole in the universe? An AT/AU inspired by the Finale in which Dunham faces the most complicating puzzle of all. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_I'm starting another fanfiction, I know, but let's just say that this weekend was very inspirational :P This one is just an idea and I'm going to see where it takes me...Reviews appreaciated and WARNING spoilers for the season finale ahead...Alas, I own not Fringe...the title means "mirror" in middle english...._

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**Mirour**

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That which gives a true representation, or in which a true image may be seen; hence, a pattern; an exemplar.

--

"Stop!"

"Dunham!"

The Bishop boy appeared at the edge of the dark forest as the convicted felon, whom, as Olivia Dunham had just learned, bullets couldn't kill, stumbled towards the rainy tableau of the other side. The rotting man quickened his pace as Olivia begun to run towards him.

As Peter fumbled with the remote, time seemed to slow. He had to get it closed before Jones and, most importantly, before Olivia. He pointed it towards the gaping hole in the space-time continuum the instant Jones reached it.

On his first try, Peter's sweaty hand slid off the button. That was all the man needed. David Robert Jones smoothly, as smoothly as a decaying man could, slid through the portal.

Peter went to press it again, determined to not fail. Fortunately, he looked up just moments before and immediately halted from following through. Olivia was still running after Jones. And, right when Peter had intended to press the button, she went streaming into the gap after him.

The peculiar invention meant to save the world had just shattered Peter's. He dropped it to the ground and it rolled down the slight incline in front of him. _Olivia_…

Oddly, his disbelief didn't blind him. For once he wished it would. Did he have the guts to follow her? The stormy night on the other side wasn't exactly a welcoming image, but the opportunity was right before him.

"Peter!"

And then there was his father.

"Hurry son, close it! What are you waiting for?"

Walter Bishop came to the edge of the clearing, his voice distant to Peter but biting nonetheless. He didn't know about Agent Dunham yet...

"Close it!"

His voice was frantic now and he had begun his descent into the small little valley. The disbelief Peter had just desired hit him, freezing up his insides and rooting him to the ground. He watched his father out of the corner of his eye, feeling effortless to do anything.

But Walter wasn't coming towards his comatose son or the soft spot. Walter was heading to the remote now lying on the ground. Fear washed over Peter, melting the ice cold grip incredulity held him with.

"Walter, no!"

Dr. Bishop held the device level, the same way his brethren had and, approximately, from the same spot. He hesitated.

"God," he whispered with sad awe, "It's magnificent, isn't it?"

And then with a decisive but minute action of his hand, Walter pressed the button, finally mending the gap.

--

The first thing Olivia noticed was that she was soaking wet.

Entering the alternate universe, she had promptly tripped over a fallen branch and gone sprawling into the mud.

If it weren't for her little accident, her trajectory and acceleration would have surely caused her to overcome Jones; the man was instead several paces in front of her. She lifted her head and, much to her relief, the criminal had yet to realize he had company in this rainy reality.

Olivia stayed low, watching him trip his way forward. Jones didn't so much as glance back to the portal from which he'd come. He continued at a steady pace towards the edge of the lake where some faint lights shimmered, distorted from the disrupted surface of the water. Olivia could make out the sound of men's voices over the disagreeable weather.

"I'm here!"

Jones' raspy voice caught her off guard. She jumped, frightened that he was addressing her, but shouts and footsteps squishing the wet ground as they neared told her otherwise.

_Clever,_ she thought, _of course Jones had contacted the other side and prearranged his minions._

Inching forward on her elbows, Olivia tried to inconspicuously make it to the edge of the clearing and the safety of the trees. She dared not stand up. Thanking those early morning workouts, she reached the forest in record time, gracefully and quietly getting to her feet. The woman ducked behind a fat, moss-covered tree and wiped mud from her brow. Rainwater poured down her face as she tried to locate Jones. Peering into the night, she found him surrounded by his cohorts. The darkness gave no help as to identifying who they were.

Her heart pounding in her chest, Olivia gulped. She tried to catch her breath as silently as possible, but her situation didn't lend itself easily to being calm. She hadn't given much thought as to what she had just done; she hadn't had time to. But she was, quite literally, in a whole other world now. The present, wherever it was, needed her attention.

The group of three or so men began to help Jones back to the lights and Olivia covertly followed.

--

"—but there has to be _another_ access point—"

"I'm sorry, son. There's not."

Peter paced franticly across the dirt of the forest, his hands trembling and his brain going a hundred miles an hour. Walter sat on the edge of the antagonists' van; he tried to distract himself from his son by playing with the various technologies inside. Suddenly, Peter caved.

"You moron! I told you to stop!"

"If you were so eager to join her, why didn't you go through yourself?"

"Because—"

Walter looked at him expectantly, but Peter only leveled with him, his voice low and serious.

"Why didn't you stop? Your beleaguered associate is trapped in that reality too. And now, with an apparent madman. Why, I ask, why did you close it!?"

"Now, come, Peter, we don't even know for sure he _is_. He could be taking a nice holiday in Glasgow for all we care—"

"Then what about Olivia? Are you saying she doesn't matter?"

Walter didn't respond, only studied his hands with feigned interest. He inhaled desolately and gazed back up at Peter, his words getting caught in his throat.

"I—You know I—I care very much about Agent Dunham and that you even dare to suggest that I—I simply don't know, my son—"

"No," Peter declared, shaking his head, "No, you don't. This is all just a game to you."

The words stung.

"Excuse me?"

Charlie's scratchy voice cut awkwardly into the battle. Peter turned to look at the bewildered man, noting his anxious eyes. The Agent's extended hand contained a cell-phone.

"Broyles would like to speak to you, sir."

--

A/N: Do we like? Yea? Nay?


	2. Chapter 2

Don't worry, I'm still working on my other stories, only I had spaz attack concerning this one two days ago and had to sit down and figure out where the plot is actually heading (mind you, thinking it all through like that is a rather large step for me :) I'm going to be away for a while...so no updates soon...I still don't own Fringe...muchos gracias to those who reviewed and please tell me what you think of this chapter!

--

Peter didn't even glance at the offered cell. Instead, he trained his beady eyes on the Agent holding it.

"What does he want with me?" he said coldly. It was more of statement than a question.

"He wants to talk with you," Charlie said without hesitation, "Personally, sir, when Phillip Broyles has something to say, you sit down, shut up and listen."

Peter took the phone from Francis, his face blank and complacent, a slight hint of resentment flickering across it.

"Peter Bishop."

"Boy, you have some explaining to do," Broyles' low, resolute voice sounded from the other end.

After his actions, having the weight of the world dumped on his shoulders seemed to Peter only just.

"Sir," he spoke carefully, "if this is about Olivia then I am ready to assume all responsibility—"

"What's happened to Agent Dunham?"

Peter was confused. He looked up at Charlie as the agent, who had previously been studying their whole conversation, glanced away to the lake. Apparently, Charlie hadn't had the guts to tell his superior the news yet. Not that Peter blamed him.

"Bishop," broke the stern voice, "What has happened to Olivia Dunham?"

It was now or never.

"With all due respect, sir, she's in an alternate universe."

"What?"

"That's all we know."

"If this is your idea of joke, I firmly reminded you that now is most definitely not—"

"It's not a joke!" Peter exclaimed, exasperated and almost more insulted that Broyles didn't believe than if the man had just shouted, "She followed Jones through the portal."

"Jones is there?"

"Was. Now he's in the same place as Dunham."

"Then I'm afraid what's at stake here has gone beyond just Agent Dunham."

Peter tensed. He didn't care what Broyles said. A guilty, regretful and all too real pain grew inside him. The guilt of what he could've done, _should've_ done, it was proof enough to him that Olivia still remained the most valuable thing of all the things he had lost. His concern gripped him, choking, threatening to overthrow reason at any moment. He swallowed it. He'd blanked enough on rationality today.

"Listen closely," Broyles continued, "The precise details of what just occurred up there have not been related to me yet; there is no way they could've. But whatever you or Jones' did is having serious repercussions on the rest of the planet."

Up to this point Peter had done his best to ignore his father, who was still very much at the scene. Now he turned to look at him with a scolding expression.

"Like what?" he asked slowly, he scouring eyes locked with his father's brown ones.

"Death by inexplicable disease—or so they call it," Broyles answered with an unreadable edge to his voice, "Bermuda Triangle. Three deaths. In the last twenty minutes alone."

Peter was speechless, impulsively breaking his gaze away from Walter. The tense silence was a clear indicator for Broyles.

"Am I correct in assuming that you now have much clearer understanding of the mysteries—and dangers—we face?"

"Sir," Peter gulped, "I always knew how immense our enemy was. And, yes, my understanding has been greatly improved…"

"Without Dunham there, I need _you_ to get answers out of your father. Anything that might help to stop this madness."

"I'll try, sir."

"Don't try, do. You have an obligation to your country and, so it appears, to the rest of humanity."

"Thank you, sir."

Peter brought the phone down and hung up. He squatted next to Walter.

"Tell me how the hell to fix this."

--

The warm glow of the metal lantern looked inviting, but even as Olivia crouched in the cold rain, she knew better. As comfortable as the navy van looked, the company wouldn't be quite so safe and assuring.

From where she hid, her view was only through a rather wide gap in a bush and her sightline was occasionally blocked by various leaves. Through her small, framed peephole, though, she could see the bumper of the van and David Robert Jones, who perched oddly on the edge, still bandaged from head to toe.

Another figure came into the picture, but it wasn't until he turned that she could identify him. Or rather, not. She had never seen him before in her life. Nonetheless, she quickly attempted to memorize his sinister, angular face before he faded back into the shifty darkness.

The next face she immediately recognized. The sight of him conjured up both feelings of fear and ire and her stomach seemed to quench itself into a knot. She hadn't known that her encounters with Mitchell Loeb had such an effect on her, but the sight of the man walking freely when she knew what his persona (for that was what seemed appropriate to call it) had done struck a chord in her. She thanked her hiding spot, wondering what his life had been like in this world, as it had obviously quite deviated from the plotline she knew.

Olivia recalled another man from the initial moments on this side of the portal, but he wasn't to be seen again. It was assumed that perhaps he was hidden in the back of the van.

She began to wonder why the group wasn't leaving yet; her curiosity was stirred, but the elimination of the spirit of urgency and wet, frozen feet all sought to get out of the weather.

The angular man emerged from the shadows and, even from yards away, Olivia could see that he was happy about something.

"Lee's reached the contact," he said with pride to Jones, "Now can we get out of this godforsaken weather?"

Jones' smiled his ironic grin at him.

"Not so hastily, friend. What did the contact say?"

"Yes. Target is in location," he answered impatiently.

"Now just wait a minute. This is the first time I've met you and you me. Aren't you at all curious?"

The dark man stiffened uncomfortably. Olivia supposed that he was new at this; a henchman for hire, as it were, that didn't quite grasp the reality—or realities—of the situation. He was saved from having to respond by Loeb, who rounded the corner to catch the last of Jones' question.

"Give the man a break," he said seriously to Jones. Then, to the other man, "He's normally in quite the playful mood. Never forget that he is the kind who likes to tantalize his food before eating it."

"I am looking forward to…interacting with Bell," Jones' sneered quietly, his voice almost drowned by the rain.

"You know, Mr. Jones," Mitchell addressed him formally, "I must say that was actually beginning to like the you of this world. Before I met _you_, you, of course."

Jones' looked at him questionably.

"I hope that didn't impede your judgment."

Loeb looked at him blankly for a moment before catching the full extent of what he meant.

"Oh no, sir," he added hastily, "Subject has been terminated as requested."

"Good."

"Are we done yet?" the impatient one asked.

Jones' didn't respond directly, snubbing the man and taking a long glance around at his rainy surroundings to study the soaked forest. As much as he appeared to ponder something deep, Olivia would have instead theorized that he merely enjoyed testing his minions' patience. His discolored eyes scanned the bushes; Olivia watched with mild interest.

Without warning, he jerked his head back to the plant she hid behind. Olivia froze. His blue, milky eye stared, unblinking, right at her convenient hole in the bush. She knew she was in plain sight, but also knew that attempting to move would be beyond idiotic. Instead, Olivia held her ground, her heart racing, pounding, threatening to leap up into her throat any moment. _Perhaps_, she tried to calm herself…

After what seemed like an eternity, Jones' finally relaxed, though never taking his eyes away from the bush. He addressed Loeb obliquely.

"It's time to go."

--

Nina Sharp's head hurt. And it wasn't just from the elevator ride either. She was confident that it was something infinitely more traumatizing than entering an alternate universe or even getting shot. Perhaps pain was a better word than traumatizing.

_A pain in the ass,_ she thought.

As Nina marched down the hallway of Massive Dynamic's headquarters, she began to grow more and more tired of her predicament. If she wasn't so devoted to William Bell, she found herself concluding, she would have quit ages ago.

_Not that that would help much. I suppose certain details of my job would find a way to bugger my peace all the same. And because of that woman…_

She rounded a corner briskly, almost colliding with a hurried, young secretary carrying coffee and a stack of files. Nina didn't stop to apologize; the temp's destination held infinitely less significance than hers. A destination she, in less than two minutes, had reached.

A very flustered Nina deftly flung the paneled oak door open, flaring into the office at full speed. At this point she was past caring what the other employees thought. They weren't on the same plane any way. Plane of reality, she meant.

But upon finding the desk empty, she stopped, then swiveled indignantly back to the door.

"You look rather disconcerted. Is there something wrong?"

Nina turned to find the woman she had been seeking seated on the leather couch, a bogus grin plastered across her face that was more appropriate for the Cheshire Cat.

"I'm curious. What type of game do you think you're playing here?" Nina demanded of her.

The woman's expression suddenly shifted to dead serious.

"I assure you; this is no game."

"What did Jones do?"

"I see we're being frank now."

Nina still hadn't had her question answered and waited for the woman's real response. Unfortunately for her, her aspiration wasn't to be satiated that easily.

"I get the feeling that you don't like me," the woman continued, "That there is something you find, well, unsettling about me."

"I think you understand that there is a great deal, to put in those terms, _unsettling_ about our connections. But—"

"But what?"

"But, I think it is imperative at this moment that we find a way to cooperate. And that certainly does not give you permission to—"

"I have no interest in cooperation. If it was at any point one of my priorities, I would most definitely not be sitting where I am now."

Nina stiffened sharply.

"Is that all?" the woman finished.

Saying not a word, not even allowing the grace of eye contact, Nina turned defiantly to the door, and exited disparately into the hallway.

--

Nina Sharp watched her alternate persona subtly slam the door behind her. She allowed a small smile to creep over her face, a hint of pride at being the one who had come out on top. This was, after all, _her_ world; that Nina Sharp was nothing more than an insignificant visitor.

--

A/N: So, if someone out there still likes it...I do have more planned!


	3. Chapter 3

_Pardon the infinite gap between updates, but I've been away for a week and have finals coming up soon...my time has literally been sucked away. But to make up for it, this is the longest chapter I've ever posted! Past 3,000 words...wow! So, please, enjoy. And just in case anyone reading this is following my Matrix story, Perfect Faults, I guess I'll say here that no, that has most definitely NOT been abandoned and writing the next chapter is currently at the top of my to do list :D Back to this story...I hope that I'm not moving things along to fast with Peter and Olivia and pardon if it seems like Nina is able to travel like crazy through the two realities, it just seemed to me that if you could get a portal open, you would be able to pass through it as much as you like; I'm mainly basing this off of the whole elevator end of the finale…I guess those are the only uncertainties I have about this chapter. And, please, I will love you all so much if you review! It honestly makes my day..._

--

Walter had no answers for Peter.

Although Peter knew that it was just his father's amnesia, the simple refusal of his mind to act coherently, the son still felt betrayed and distanced. It was an inherent desire of all humans. We wanted to change the past, or, in the least, not be blamed for what we did or didn't do. It was a mindset that led to unreasoned coldness towards one another, to unjust use of our loved ones as scapegoats. It was a mindset that caused Peter to only further belittle his father for being so nonresponsive. But, as always, it also drove unbearable discontent through his rickety heart.

Little did he know, his father too had not walked away from the lake the same.

The workings of Walter's mind had never been transparent to the world; Peter would never fully realize that inside, Dr. Bishop was simultaneously filled with pride and shame towards the various accomplishments of his time. It was a delicate balance that made life an often unstable puzzle. There were days, that night included, when he suffered from an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. He cared deeply about these people—Olivia, Peter--but was effortless to stop the events essentially initiated by him from hurting them. Yet in Walter's mind, something had realized that to keep himself at least mildly sane, it was imperative that this insecurity remain hidden.

And thus the man went on normally, cheerfully even, with his usual unorthodox comments and demeanor, wearing, not for the first time in his life, his emotions masked by insanity.

--

Peter couldn't stand to be near Walter now, not after the events of the night. And, though it was close to midnight, he found himself unable to go home, to go back and be trapped with the lunatic he loved and despised so dearly. Instead, he hitched a ride with Charlie and found his way to Olivia Dunham's desk.

The FBI offices, through not nearly as hurried as during the day, were nonetheless busier than they normally should have been in the middle of the night. A looming Armageddon seemed to be quite the initiative to work overtime.

Peter didn't feel guilty about trespassing; after all, wherever the owner was she probably wouldn't lose sleep over it. And he wouldn't get in trouble, as Broyles he had passed in the hall, giving him an unsympathetic face, but understanding eyes.

Peter sat silently in her chair, running his hand absentmindedly along the table edge, its coolness refreshing. He stared at the screen, hoping that perhaps it would suddenly light up and blink out a message from Olivia. But it remained dark black, like a never-ending wormhole.

He gently leaned forward onto his desk, resting his chin on his hands and watching the going-ons with mild interest, his heart at loss of what to do. Then he saw it, lying inconspicuously under the edge of her keyboard. Frowning, Peter reached out to retrieve the yellow post-it.

Upon flipping it over he discovered a name, a telephone number and a question mark. Peter smiled a weary but pleased grin. Yes, yes indeed. This could very much help.

--

Olivia had stayed crouched in the downpour for a good ten minutes after the sounds of the van splashing through puddles had died away. When she was confident it was safe, she carefully stood up and began working her way down the rutty road. Her limbs were frozen and sore from staying perched in the strenuous position and they ached with every trembling step she took, but the systematic pounding of her feet through the mud promised her that she was at least going somewhere.

She figured that she had gone no more than a mile when the dirt path gave way to a highway, which was deserted in the storm and late hour. The Agent very easily remembered from which direction they'd arrived at the lake, though the sight looked mildly foreign in the streams of water pouring from the sky. Heading definitively to the right, she hoped that Boston was located in the same direction in this world as it was in hers.

--

Morning came quickly to the Bostons of both worlds; in one it dispelled a raging storm with the greatest of ease, leaving only sparkling soaked sidewalks, while in the other the day opened dry, overcast.

Peter watched the shifting white and grey skies, trying to ignore the smell of hot dogs wafting down the street. It was breakfast time; he was hungry, even if it was mediocre street food. But human necessities had been put on hold at this time; there were more urgent matters to attend to.

He waited impatiently at an undistinguished second hand bookstore downtown, the designated rendezvous. Without even entering he could determine that the store was dingy and probably smelled of cigars while at the same time retaining a nostalgic, comforting atmosphere. It wasn't the first place he would have chosen, but he had to admit it had an undeniable charm. Perhaps there was more to his lunch date than met the eye.

Upon her arrival, however, she appeared just the same as he had always seen her; impeccably dressed in sophisticated black, a beautiful silver necklace screaming 'I am expensive, do not touch' accessorizing her outfit and that unchanging furrow ever existent on her brow.

Nina Sharp walked briskly up to him, her dark eyes not quite focusing on her prey.

"Peter Bishop," she stated, "I only assume."

"And Ms. Nina Sharp of Massive Dynamic," Peter responded without hesitation, "That is, I must presume."

Sharp shifted her weight, considered whether to acknowledge his apparent mockery of her words. A small verdict must have decided against it, as she instead turned and began to enter the shop's heavy wooden door.

"Inside."

They entered. Glancing around quickly and slyly turning her head to avoid being seen by the rare customer, Nina expertly made her way through the musty shelves. Peter followed closely, avoiding eye contact and side-stepping piles of dusty books. After they reached the seeming bowels of the building, Sharp pivoted and pulled Peter into a cramped, secluded section of shelving, shielded from curious eyes. The woman spoke first.

"I must put out there that I find this place rather seedy for my taste, but then again this meeting is strictly off the record, you understand."

"Ms. Sharp," Peter assured her, "'off the record' is my native language."

Slightly taken aback, Sharp countered.

"Ah yes," she mused, "I had forgotten how much Ms. Dunham found the most…_unusual_ friends."

Peter felt something rise in his throat, a mixture of offense and macho, but he gulped down his desire to counter this woman. Her help was needed to make it out of the maze of questions before him.

Sharp smiled, appearing to take immense pride in her small but insignificant victory. Peter was tired and hungry and just wanted to care less about this minute war of wits.

"Regardless," he said with a dismissively calm demeanor, "of what you perceive me to be, I did not come here to be belittled. I am under the assumption that you know Olivia Dunham's whereabouts."

Sharp's face straightened, her eyes contemplating a response to the boy's decisive cut to the point.

"You do understand," she spoke slowly, "that you have all the answers already."

"You're skirting the issue. Where is Olivia?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Peter nodded in mock comprehension.

"Ah. I see. We've come to this," he said with a superior air, "Why should you help me? Because you would've helped Dunham. You planned to help her; you just never got the chance."

He withdrew a wrinkled yellow post-it out of his pocket and held it triumphantly up to Sharp.

"She was planning on meeting you today—that is, before fate booked her another appointment."

Sharp snatched the note from him and studied it closely. After a second her expression changed.

"This means nothing," she snapped, "I deny ever talking to Ms. Dunham privately and as for this—if this—this…_evidence_—if it wasn't already demeaned by your reputation, than the simple absurdity that she actually recorded such a meeting proves it counterfeit."

She crushed the paper violently and explicitly in front of Peter's face, hissing at him through gritted teeth.

"As for you, you're merely an indignant youth inexcusably meddling in affairs much larger than you suppose. I have no reason to disclose any—"

"Where is Olivia Dunham?!"

Offended, exasperated, and at the end of his wits, Peter reached forward instinctively, as if to grab Sharp by the scruff of her neck. He halted midair and instead of continuing with his accosting, he crumpled inward from his outburst, removing his hands hastily back to his side.

Sharp exhaled scathingly through her nostrils, the silence tense. But she watched the young man with a newfound interest. For in his sudden lapse of composure, she had spied a certain characteristic—a rather uncharacteristic characteristic, as it were—trapped within him. She stared at the man, whose eyes were wide with shock, and felt a twang of pity for him and his situation.

_How easy would it be,_ she vaguely considered, _to give this boy what he sought, to save him from the angst so painfully etched in the bags under his eyes. _Peter blinked quickly. _The device could have us there in less than twenty minutes. Those grey eyes beg me to do it, to put them at rest and seize their torment but…at the risk of the whole program. _Suddenly, the instinct was gone and Peter's momentary vulnerability had dissipated. It was replaced with a cold demanding stare.

"I have nothing to tell you, Mr. Bishop," Sharp stated, returning his frozen gaze.

His face remaining blank, Peter pushed rudely past the woman, again frustrated and boiling inside, but intelligent enough to smoother it some. He turned back to her at the edge of the shelf.

"Mr. Bishop," he said, "is my father."

Indignantly, he began to walk back through the maze of shelves, the saturated shades of old books coloring an odd, clashing background.

--

By daybreak, Olivia had managed to hitch a ride with a stranger in a red pickup truck. He had, much to her relief, not felt the need to partake any more conversation than necessary formalities and most of the ride was spent in silence. Olivia estimated that it was no later than six-thirty when she was dropped off at a bus station on the outskirts of Boston.

Some cash she fished out of her uniform's pocket; its purpose being there was unknown to her but she thanked it all the same. After dumping the conspicuous soaked coat (it did, after all have 'FBI' plastered on it in bright yellow letters), she boarded a near empty bus with an inner city destination. Where exactly in Boston she was headed, she didn't know. It had crossed her mind to visit the Harvard lab, but something told her it most definitely wouldn't be the same. The question of whether there was a Walter, Peter, Astrid or even her here she also currently listed as things to uncover.

The ride was uneventful at first, with only the observations she made about this new world to keep her immediately entertained. Olivia hadn't spent enough time back home to determine the exact changes in the rolling landscape, but in the air she did sense a strange stigma. How to define it was beyond her, but the she did know that the distant, shifting colors alienated her. Though after a while the aura of this existence began to seep in, till then she found it more comforting to focus on the details of her life in the other world. That life, which often seemed a dream to her, was, in this reality, arguably more real than it had ever been. The people she held so close to her heart, those had found room for, floated in and out of her consciousness.

The face she seemed to form most frequently in the grey blobs rushing past was that of Peter. To her he had always been secretive, hardly an open book. But his laughter and sarcasm, she had to admit was partly responsible for getting her through her demanding job. How much a part of her ached for him to be with her now, cynical comment in hand to reassure…_He, possibly he, is the only one that could put me at rest without the superficial aid of straight answers. Unless he has been deceiving me all this time, I know he cares. Perhaps this care, could help me forget, forget to stop searching for black and white answers to everything. I know the world doesn't work that way. I know. But I can't let go. Oh, Peter…I need you…_

Olivia shut her eyes cautiously, as if the fibers of the universe might dissipate if she moved too swiftly. The bus, she noticed, made a wholly unnatural sound at every bump in the road. The noise fascinated her. Empty and hollow, but filled with all angles of life, messy and fabricated, fleeting and resounding. Thunk.

As the vehicle ascended a rather large bump, she was lurched forward into the seat in front of her. Her impulsive reach out to it was the only thing stopping her from tumbling head on into the lap of its occupant.

"Pardon," Olivia said absentmindedly, briskly drawing her head back up to see whom she had nearly slammed into.

She wasn't greeted by a face, but rather by a newspaper. She tilted her head to make out an article she had glimpsed. _Obamas move into new White House_. _What?_

"Are you alright, miss?"

Olivia froze mid-thought; she found the voice behind the paper far more heart-stopping. Stunned by the advert circumstances, she found herself unable to do anything but stare at the cheery lab assistant from her world, Astrid.

"Miss?"

"Yes," Olivia said, jerking out of her trance, "Yes, I'm quite fine."

"You sure? You're as white as a ghost."

"I, um, just—never mind."

"Well, if you need anything…"

Astrid trailed back to her paper as Olivia sank back in her seat, still gazing awkwardly at the young woman in front of her. _Why is she way out here?_ Olivia knew better than to dismiss any occurrence as coincidence, but, as evidenced by her polite smile and address of 'miss', this Astrid clearly had never met Olivia before. Figuring, though, that she could hold some helpful information, the experienced agent utilized the one tool that she hated most of all. Disguise.

"Um, actually, m'am," Olivia interrupted, "I was wondering if we had ever met before? Your face seems oddly familiar."

Not a complete lie, just the truth worded oddly. Astrid folded the newspaper on her lap and looked at Olivia with interest.

"No…" she pondered, "I don't believe we have. But you do seem…" She squinted curiously at the women, "reminiscent to me too. Can't for the life of me place who, though."

Astrid laughed.

"Perhaps it's just the weather; it can do strange things to people."

Olivia smiled and pretended that she knew where the woman was going with this. This Astrid may have looked like the one she knew and the similarities were definitely existent, but the differences were there too. She was more open and friendly; the other Astrid probably would've begun to talk with just anyone on public transportation.

"In what way do you mean?"

"Oh, just observations I've made here and there. Mostly at work."

"And where do you work?"

Astrid paused considering in her mind whether to spill the beans or not. Finally she leaned in consciously and half-whispered to Olivia.

"Massive Dynamic."

At Olivia's confused look she clarified.

"Oh, you must no be from around here. Funny. I thought we had a higher awareness level than that." She lowered her voice slightly. "Anyway, there's been some discrepancy lately between Massive Dynamic and the government, our main client. As employees we've been getting harsh looks from the general public towards our work and what we're using it for. But, although I can't tell you how, I assume all of our efforts go into the right organizations. Here, actually, we were in the paper today…"

She handed Olivia the creased newspaper.

"Business, D1."

Olivia took the paper with a thank you and began to read.

_MD takes extra security measures against further demonstrations_

_After a surge of local protests last month and following the break-in last week, Massive Dynamic founder and CEO William Bell has agreed to, at the government's suggestion, instate a new head of security. With Massive Dynamic declining to respond, the only specifics we have about this new coming, which marks for us a decisive turn in the government's involvement with our private companies, is the name of the company and new head. Starting his first week with this coming Monday will be John Scott_—

The name caught in her throat and Olivia stopped reading, nauseated and trying to catch her breath. She hastily handed the article back to Astrid, not wanting to read any further, not needing to. As painful has it had been, she now had one less question clinging to her brain to answer. She knew how Jones' group would access the company and get to Bell. Exactly how it all was connected still evaded her, but she was confidant that that name, whether it belonged to the man who broke her heart or not, was a sign. It was a sign that pointed easily to the one place see needed to be to protect Bell, a place she felt very stupid for not realizing before would give her oodles of her desired answers. Massive Dynamic headquarters.


End file.
